Page 32 of Savage Captor (Deadly Devotion #1)

I am not giving in. I am not trusting his bullshit words, even if part of me craves to.

I’m sure I’m only attractive to him because I’m his property.

His pet. His slave. He can do whatever the hell he wants with me, to me, and unless I get very smart very fast, this is going to be how I spend the rest of my life—regardless of how long it is.

Suddenly, Monster’s hands are on me. Smoothing over my waist and to my back.

Fingertips drifting up my arms. The threat of tears redoubles in my eyes, so I squeeze them shut all the harder.

A burning in my throat joins the aching pain in my chest. Everything hurts—my body, my dignity, my pride.

He’s taking all of it away from me, piece by piece.

“So soft,” he murmurs. I hear a rustle of fabric, and then the soft thud of his knees hitting the floor. A soft sob escapes me that I can’t keep control of. “Calm down,” he says. “I’m just checking your stab wound.”

“Can I put my clothes on after?” My voice is wobbly and pathetic. Monster’s mercurial behavior has me so far off balance that my emotions and dignity have both tipped over and spilled to the floor, just like I have multiple times.

“No. That’s your punishment. Goad me, taunt me, fuck with me, and I will take away your privileges. Clothes are a privilege. Entertainment—such as reading or TV—is a privilege.” My stomach drops to my feet. He’s really going to take everything apart piece by piece. Reduce me to an item, a thing .

“So beautiful,” he repeats softly. A tumultuous mixture of flattery and disgust swells in my chest, almost making me want to cough again.

“Four weeks until your thigh is stable. A week or two until your pneumonia has cleared up.” He exhales a soft sigh that flutters over my mound.

I thump my head against the door, shaking my head.

His fingers land on me once again, making me jump, and this time he doesn’t bother commenting.

He feels all around my wound, pressing on the tender flesh but not getting too close to the stab.

“It’s healing up quite nicely,” he says. “Infection seems to have cleared. That’s good.”

I don’t respond. I might as well take a vow of silence so my mouth stops getting me in trouble.

“And what do we have here…” his fingers trail up until they’re caressing the crease where my thigh meets my pussy.

My eyes snap open and I lurch to the side, desperate to get away before he assaults me.

His response is to quickly and succinctly snag my waist in an iron grip and pin me to the wall.

He stares at me with eyes that are still heated with desire but also filled with warning. “Behave. ”

Fuck you . I manage to keep the words trapped inside this time around.

“Barely any hair,” he mutters, staring at my pussy with something that could be a hungry look. “Did you get lasered or something?”

I do not want to be having this conversation, and I certainly don’t want to delve into why I’m pretty close to hairless down there.

This is humiliating enough. Discussing the fact that my father had me primped and primed from the first time I got my period is too far.

That he had me get whole-body waxes every two weeks, only ever gave me clothes that weren’t hand me down’s when he had guests.

He was preparing me for the day I’d get married since I was thirteen years old.

Five years of a rigorous beauty and waxing routine left its mark. I don’t grow hair anywhere near as much as I used to. I suppose that’s something many women would be envious of, but I’m not. My agency was taken from me before, and now it’s happening again.

“What, no quip? No smart remark? No trying to wind me up? Is taking away clothes really all it takes to get you to pipe the fuck down like a good little bitch?”

He’s antagonizing me now. Reminding me that he’s still angry and that he holds all the power. Calling me names like a goddamn grade-school boy. I won’t rise to it. I won’t . It’ll only give him a reason to degrade me further. To speed up the painful part of this consequence .

I know the pain is coming—it has to be. He indicated that losing my clothes is the punishment, but he’s a liar. He just wants to get me more wound up and upset first.

My teeth clench when his fingers ghost over the top of my mound, circling over it.

My entire body tenses, and my heart beat triples in pace.

I shake my head against the wall, hoping he sees me.

Not that. Anything but that. Certainly not while I’m stuck in the odd grip of humiliation and a strange sense of…

almost accomplishment that he likes what he sees.

Being looked at and liked by Monster is not an accomplishment, it’s a goddamn nightmare.

When his fingers start to slip lower, I break and whisper, “Please. Don’t.”

He pauses. For an agonizingly long moment he pauses. I don’t dare open my eyes. I keep them shut tight.

Then, his finger plunges lower, sliding between my folds. I yelp, eyes opening as I reach down to push him the hell away from me, but he catches my wrists and pins them to my stomach. “No. Bad girl. If I want to touch you, I will touch you. Understand?”

As if in taunt, his finger slides over my clit. No, not slides, glides . Jesus Christ, I’m actually aroused . It’s the praise—it must’ve gotten to me. I’ve heard so little of it in my life, it’s muddling my senses and crossing the wires in my brain. My shame is a living, breathing force right now.

What the hell does it say about me that this man, this monster could manage to get me turned on, even if it's only a little bit?

A low, dark chuckle escapes his lips. It’s a pure taunt, sinful and raspy. “ Very nice.” He circles his slippery fingers over my clit. I try to struggle against him, to get away, but I can’t. I’m trapped. He can do whatever he wants to me.

“Right, that’s enough of that. I’ve learned what I need to know.” His fingers disappear, leaving me with a sinking sense of loss. As horrible and wrong as it is, for a moment, that felt good.

Self-hatred slams into me like a truck. What the hell is wrong with me? Enjoying his touch? Bathing in his praise?

I guess I am the weak girl my father called me, after all. I’m not beautiful; I’m ugly and twisted down to my soul. The fact that I got turned on by the faintest bit of praise from a red-blooded male, not discriminating on the basis that he’s my actual torturer , only serves to prove my weakness.

“You’ll learn to love it,” Monster says, standing to his full height. I turn my head away to avoid meeting his gaze. The shame is too much. I want to crawl in a hole and die. “You’ll come to crave my touch, in time.”

You’re delusional , I want to say, but I keep my lips sealed. I can’t handle any more bullshit today.

“Time to go back to bed,” he says. My eyebrows furrow.

Maybe he’s going to spank me or something?

He’s probably the kind of guy who’s into that.

I’ve seen it in porn a few times, and it didn’t look fun.

He dispels my speculation with his next words.

“When I’m done being pissed off, I’ll give you a chance to apologize and put your clothes back on. Until then, enjoy the freedom.”

The freedom. The freedom? As if clothes are constricting?

They’re my only protection from this psycho.

Without further preamble, he lifts me into his arms. The sweatpants fall off my legs, lying in a pile on the floor.

Monster carries me back to the bedroom like the stupid, useless little girl I’ve acted like, and then leaves.

He leaves me here, naked, knowing there are cameras watching my every move.

He leaves me alone with my thoughts, my despair, and my hatred.

He just… leaves me. And I don’t know why the hell that hurts more than him stripping my clothes and my dignity, and reminding me just how powerless I really am.